Tomb of the Unknown Cat

“Thought you should know. Up on McCurry by the stop sign.” The caller said, “It’s pretty messy.”

I was upset, but this was not completely unexpected. Understand, Bill had been taken into the family as a hit man of sorts. After several years of our lawn and garden being ravaged by gophers, rabbits, and deer, we felt it was time to strike back.

It’s hard to mourn the death of an assassin --- a hired killer. His gapping mouth and needle teeth was the final view of countless young rabbits, gophers, and birds. No one in our family ever gave Bill a kiss on the mouth, yet respect for a job well done was evident.

His coat was black and luxurious, set off by white paws. At adulthood, he was chunky and all slinking muscle. Bill never was a house cat. He lived outside where his work was and only retired to the shelter of the garage during subzero weather.

He wasn’t our first cat. He had two predecessors. Sugar had hardly grown up before she became dog meat, in front of the boy, no less. More for the boys sake then Sugar’s, we had a short funeral service and interred her in a small plot beside the garden. Whiskers followed and didn’t last much longer. We found her bobbing in the lake among the ice flows. The plot was widened and a flagstone marker added. Now after six years of service, Bills turn had come: flattened on McCurry Road near the stop sign. The wife and I grabbed a shovel and garbage bag and went to claim the remains.

Auto accidents do horrible things. Bill was much longer and considerably wider then I remembered. Messy was a good adjective. I saw parts of Bill I would have preferred not to. With the shovel we pealed the black and white fur from the asphalt and deposited it into the opaque garbage sack. That was better. The boy wouldn’t have to see it from the school bus.

Returning home to our growing cat cemetery, I prepared a resting site next to Whiskers. Thoughts of Bill’s life ran through my mind. The constant parade of bloodied carcasses deposited on my door step. The horror of seeing the yellow warbler in Bill’s mouth. The joy to see the bird move and the time we had prying it out from those teeth. The day we saw Bill watching the Red Wing Blackbird on the feeder four feet above him. With a lightning leap and a swinging paw, he ran from the deck with the bird in his mouth amidst our screams of protest. The footprints in the snow on the stone ledge across the front of the house showing Bill was on the job and making his rounds. He would be missed.

Bill was tolerated by the neighbors. Some expressed the wish that he only eat those evil black birds with the yellow eyes. But, Bill was indiscriminate as he prowled their shrubbery and lawns claiming his due. The gardens prospered once again.

I placed the plastic in the ground, covering it with dirt. Now, how to tell the boy. His bond with Bill was closer then any of us.

After patting the small mound before me with the shovel, I turned to see Bill watching me. A feeling of joy welled up. I extended a hand to stroke his shining back. From his mouth rolled the bloodied, iridescent body of a beautiful blue bird.

“Damn you, Bill.” I said as my kick missed by a foot. Bill squealed a protest and was a black streak heading toward McCurry Road.

Today in the plot next to the garden, Bill prowls past a small flagstone marker on which is inscribed:

Tomb of the Unknown Cat
Known but to God

Story ID:	1044
Written by:	Dick Dunlap (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Family Memories
Location:	Roscoe Illinois USA
Year:	1985
Person:	Bill